A solitary bloke sits on the bench we wanted, the one with the goodish view over the city. He’s got a picnic basket and a blanket spread out over the boards of the bench. Everything’s laid out for two; if there’s somebody else, that somebody excels at hiding.
We wanted to talk, away from his perma-drunk housemates. But we’re not talking. We sit side by side – he’s got his arm around me – watching the picnic for one. We don’t need words to communicate what we’re thinking: the bloke may have the bench with the view, but we have each other.